Happy Birthday, Sherlock!
by dumpling47
Summary: One-shot. John takes Sherlock ice-skating for his birthday, and all sorts of adorable fluff ensues. Johnlock.


**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Today, according to the Sherlock Holmes canon, is the birthday of the Great Detective! I know both Benedict and Martin are a few years older than I made them out to be in this story, but for the sake of my own personal take on things, I put Sherlock at thirty-two and John at thirty-six.**

**- I live on reviews, so drop me one, okay? If you do I'll check out your stories! *bribery***

* * *

"Sherlock, today is a very special day!"

"What do you want, John?"

John pushed on, not allowing Sherlock's tone of irritability to get him down. "It's your BIRTHDAY!" he cried, truly excited, despite the fact that his flatmate wasn't.

Sherlock rolled over in bed, still as perpetually lazy as ever. "I don't suppose you're inviting over half of Scotland Yard this time?" he grumbled, getting up with a supreme effort and pulling on his dressing-gown.

"Well, I know you didn't like that last year, so I thought we could do something, just the two of us."

Sherlock brightened almost imperceptibly. "Really? Just us?"

"If that's what you want." John paused. "_Or_ ... you could let me surprise you."

"It's not a surprise if you tell me!"

"No, but this'll really knock your socks off, I guarantee it."

Sherlock shrugged heavily. "If you say so."

* * *

He did have to admit, he was surprised at where John had taken him. Somerset House, of all places? That meant ... oh, God, no ...

_Ice skating._

Immediately Sherlock began to panic. He was a complete failure at balancing on skates - or, at least, he had been, back when he was younger and had attempted to skate in the backyard pond. Sherlock could already picture all the humiliating falls he was sure to have, and all the bumps and bruises he was bound to suffer.

"John," he said quickly, just as the cab was pulling up at the house, "I can't do this. I absolutely refuse."

"Come on, Sherlock, it's fun!"

"No, John, you don't understand -"

"Come on, you git," John laughed, pulling at Sherlock's arm. The detective reluctantly complied. "I'll help you, I promise."

They put on their skates (crap rentals, but no matter) and made their way out onto the ice. Sherlock, in his great black coat and leather gloves, looked like the last person to be seen out on the rink, surrounded by people in puffy jackets with small children.

John touched his hand to Sherlock's elbow. "It's good to try new things," he said, "And things you're not particularly good at, too."

"I really don't know what you're driving at, John," Sherlock said irritably. "Unless you want me to make an utter fool of myself -"

"Which is _not_ going to happen, because I'm going to hold your hand until you're ready," John said. "If you fall, Sherlock, I'll fall right with you, okay?"

"Alright, fine."

They skated twice around the rink (painstakingly, but no matter) until Sherlock tripped on a patch of jagged ice and went sprawling. John fell with him, though not as roughly.

Sherlock got up quickly, his cheeks bright red in a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. He wiped the snow off his knees, jaw clenched, not meeting John's eyes.

"Sherlock, it's alright -" John promised. "Nobody even saw."

"I - I look so foolish," Sherlock said, his voice breaking. "I - don't want you seeing me like this."

"Oh, Sherlock ..." John felt tears well in his eyes. "I didn't take you out tonight to embarrass you, you realize that? I thought maybe this was something we both hadn't done in awhile, and that we could just have a fun time, forget about serial murders and all that -"

"I don't _want_ to forget serial murders," Sherlock moaned. "I'm _good_ at those, for one thing."

"Yeah, well, you never know when the Ice Skates Murderer will come along, and you'll have to be adept at this, so you might as well practice!"

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. He felt his balance sway a little as he did so, but caught himself quickly.

"Alright, then, John," he said. "I'll try again."

They lasted for about an hour before they were both sore with inexperience. They'd only stumbled twice more - hadn't even landed on the ice after that first attempt. Once they were done, they made their way to a nearby cafe and talked over cups of coffee.

"I must admit, John, that was quite enjoyable," Sherlock said.

John's eyes widened. "Am I hearing what I think I'm hearing!?"

"I didn't think I'd like it so much, really."

"Which just goes to show that you never know until you try."

"Oh, God," Sherlock said, doing something of a facepalm, "You sound like someone off the telly."

"Exactly what I was going for. Never underestimate the life lessons that can be acquired off of a romcom."

As if in answer, Sherlock leaned over and kissed John warmly on the mouth, his lips sticky with the cold air and the coffee.

"Thank you, John," he said, a light shining in his pale green eyes. "I truly enjoyed myself. So much better than last year, having Lestrade and the others show up at the flat."

"Aw, c'mon, they weren't so bad."

"It was a disaster!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Remember when Molly started getting pissed off whatever was in the punch? It was like something out of a B-movie."

"Yeah, I suppose things took a dark turn," John said, laughing. "Which is exactly why we're never hosting a party with food or drink again."

"Sounds like my kind of affair."

"Yeah, well, nobody else would show up."

"Once again, it sounds fantastic."

The both laughed for awhile. After some moments, John pushed aside his coffee cup and grinned broadly. "I can't believe how much time went by," he said, glancing at his watch. "Suppose we start heading home, then?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'll be sore tomorrow, after all that skating. And falling."

John laughed, causing Sherlock to laugh, too. They excited the coffee shop, looking and sounding like a pair of kids on a sugar high.

* * *

When they got home, John arched an eyebrow as he closed their bedroom door.

"I saved the best for last," he said, grinning wildly.

Sherlock positively shuddered. "My birthday wish come true," he said, his voice husky with anticipation.

Their clothes were off within moments, and they were in the bed together. John inhaled the smell of his lover, which was probably his favorite part of the whole thing. He smelt like a warm, glowing fire, which probably made sense, but anyway, it was definitely Sherlock's Scent, and he loved it to the ends of the earth.

They didn't have sex at first, or feel the need to, really. They were both exhausted from the skating, and were content just to lie in each other's arms.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock murmured, suppressing a yawn. "Today was fun."

"As it should've been," John answered. "It is your birthday, after all."

"Thirty-two years old," Sherlock reminisced. "I'll have grey hair within the hour."

"You're a perfect age. In fact, I was just reading in a magazine that ages 31-33 are ideal for most partners."

Sherlock grinned. "Well, you must keep in mind that half the people writing those things are either old spinsters or college students with no concept of the world."

John chuckled. "Stuff it, would you?" he said. "Actually, while I'm on it, be very quiet and let me try some new moves on you. I've been doing my research."

Sherlock shuddered with anticipation. It had already been, without a doubt, the best birthday ever, and now it was going to get even better. He could hardly have asked for more.


End file.
